


Drinks are on you

by Lightning070



Series: Tales of two Space Warriors and their Green Womprat [1]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Bounty Hunter Cara Dune, Bounty Hunters, Caradin - Freeform, Cold, Dorks in Love, Explosions, F/M, Hunt Gone Wrong, Hurt Din Djarin, Keldabe Kiss, Mostly Platonic, POV Din Djarin, Protective Cara Dune, Snow, Space Dorks, Space family, established-ish relationship, some cliches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:07:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28328007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightning070/pseuds/Lightning070
Summary: “It always ends up like this.”“Like what? With you ripping my clothes off?” Din grins under the helmet.[Din really hates explosives // Cara will be the death of him (literally) // There's snow&cold&fluff so it's definitely Christmas content // English is not my first language!]
Relationships: Din Djarin/Cara Dune
Series: Tales of two Space Warriors and their Green Womprat [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2091606
Comments: 22
Kudos: 131





	Drinks are on you

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a bit late, but Happy Holidays to you all, and I hope you spent a nice, safe Christmas with your loved ones ♥ May the Force be with you throughout the next year!
> 
> [Some tags for a contest I'm writing for]  
> Evento: Maritombola 11 indetta da Lande di Fandom – Prompt 64: "Non avrei dovuto chiamarti, finisce sempre così."

“Is it just the helmet?”

Din clearly hears the words but can’t make much sense of them. It’s difficult to concentrate with a metal shard stuck between his ribs and oozing blood with his every breath. Cara’s voice bears a frantic pitch, but her tone is firm and stable like the pressure she’s applying on his wound – pain is everywhere, blossoming in his side and spreading out like vines through his chest and lungs and stomach.

“What?” he breathes, along with a mouthful of blood.

 _Bad_. Blood in the mouth is _bad_ , is all he can think as he gulps down with a grimace. He hopes he just bit his tongue, but he knows that piece of metal has pierced him far too near his lungs.

“The armor isn't part of the Creed's rules, so I can take it off here, right? Mando, _hey!_ ”

He feels a pinch on his neck, the only spot left exposed by the metal, and he jolts awake, realizing he was dozing off. That’s _bad_ too, with that amount of blood loss.

“Yeah,” he pants then, piecing her words together. He's be almost moved by her thoughtfulness, were he not too busy clinging to his life.

He instinctively fumbles for the sharp piece of metal lodged into his flesh ande brushes the tip. A hiss of pain escapes his lips as white holes burst before his eyes. His fingers find the strap holding the thick protective layer underneath the beskar and he tries to unfasten it – he fails miserably, his hand trembling like jelly.

“Just– just cut through it,” he stutters, just as she complies of her own initiative, too in a rush to care for buckles, latches, and zippers. He feels the sizzling blade grazing his skin and leaving an unpleasant heat mark behind, but he’ll complain about the damage when he won’t be suffocating in his own blood. His head is swimming and he feels the helmet constricting around it.

Cara cuts the sturdy tissue and leather alongside the chest plate border, along with the left sleeve, and finally manages to fold the armor away and uncover the wound, even though _not_ in a painless way. The icy air makes his now exposed skin crawl with goosebumps, but it’s good – cold is _good_ , it slows down the bleeding. He tries to keep his head clear of the fog he feels rising from below, clouding his thoughts.

Then he hears Cara hold a sharp breath, and he knows his chances of survival have just dropped drastically. “Ok. This is _kriffing_ serious.”

So much for bedside manners, but that’s Cara for you. Din would sigh, if that wouldn’t make the shard sink deeper into his flesh and probably put an end to his bounty hunter career, along with his life. He feels Cara take his hand by the wrist and carefully placing his thumb and index around the wound and the metal, making him squeeze lightly. He winces, but holds the grip, knowing that’s the only thing preventing him from bleeding out.

“Don’t move and keep applying pressure – I’m gonna retrieve a bacta pack from the _Crest_. You have bacta packs, right?”

She talks so fast he struggles to put the sentences together, but the words _bacta pack_ mean life, and life is what he’s really keen on preserving right now, so they stand out amid the confused jumble of her voice. He nods, and his brain slushes about in his own skull like a wet rag. A hasty, encouraging tug on his shoulder, and she’s gone.

He only sees the blown-out canopy of the lodge’s porch, now. Snowflakes flutter about through it, some falling on his visor in fringed shapes. He feels heavier. Then lighter. Warm, then colder. Falling and soaring. He evens out his breath, keeping it at a minimum but steady rate, barely moving his chest at all as he hears the air sift through his modulator with a raspy hitch. The metal shard gets colder by the second and he tightens the limp grip of his fingers around it, his gloves slick with his own blood.

 _Dank farrik_ , he tries to mutter, but he ends up only thinking it.

Cara told him that this was supposed to be an _easy_ bounty. But it’s _always_ supposed to be an easy bounty until it isn’t. A lowlife weapon trafficker like many others – Leys Givad, a sloppy Clawdite who was so overconfident in his shape-shifting abilities that it had been painfully easy to follow him and predict his every move. At least, that’s what Cara told him. It had been _her_ target, after all – they've taken split bounties while on Kijimi, as they often do when credits are running low. Nothing out of the ordinary.

It's taken Din a scarce day to track his own bounty on Kijimi's surrounding mountains, and he's put the thief in carbonite before sunset, enjoying a bit of respite with the kid in the snowy countryside. Cara called him right then, cheerfully telling him to join her in the city so they could celebrate their successful bounties at the local inns, since she was confident she would capture her own in a matter of hours. Then things had blown out of control. Literally.

Simply put, she hadn’t taken into account the possibility that the Clawdite could be a terrorist aiming to overthrow Kijimi’s self-appointed government. And, well, the _bomb_ he'd been smuggling around had taken her off guard. Din has an awfully bad relationship with things that explode and all but froze when she’d called him to report the news – he’d just landed the _Crest_ in Kijimi’s woody outskirts.

What was supposed to be a peaceful evening spent together has soon become a frenzied manhunt through the city’s spiraling and snowy alleys and then through the wild, surrounding woods and ridges. Din can barely explain how he’s even got to the target in one piece without tumbling down a crevasse.

A shiver runs through his body, and his skin starts to prickle as it slowly becomes numb. His gloved hand starts to slip off the wound, and he wills it to hold the grip.

He tries to calculate how much time has passed since Cara left. He’d managed to corner Givad in that isolated lodge just outside Kijimi, and luckily the _Crest_ is in a clearing just about a klick from there. It shouldn’t take long. He knows it’s not long, and he’s been wounded enough times to know how time always dilates when you’re in pain.

 _Stay still, breathe_. The hemorrhage is significant, but non-lethal. _Yet_. He knows his body: he can hold on. He tries to look at the wound, awkwardly shifting his head, and spots the hard, shiny metal jutting out of his ribcage a good two inches. The wound is small, but deep. The shard’s clean-cut frame, along with the icy temperature have tampered down the blood flow.

He'll be alright. He’s just glad he’s insisted on going first while Cara went around the back to cover the other exit. He’s been the one to take on the full impact of the explosion. Anyone without a beskar protection would be faring much worse than this. He hadn’t even entered the lodge when the bomb went off – probably by accident – and that metal shrapnel, perhaps splintered off a window frame, has just been sheer unluck. He could’ve walked out of there with just some bruised ribs and a headache, but here he is, lying on the devastated porch.

Breathing, at least. Cara is safe, and so is the kid. He adjusts his hand onto the wound, grimacing under the helmet, where snow keeps accumulating and shrouding his vision. He just has to hold on a little longer.

§

After what must be at least two millennia, he hears the brisk crunching of boots in the snow, and he lets himself sigh in relief in the half-sleeping state he’s slipped in. He’d know Cara’s steps anywhere and then she’s at his side again, kneeling on the wooden floor. The thin sheet of frozen blood creaks under the pressure.

“I couldn’t find the medkit. You should _really_ tidy up the storage room,” she says, as if they were having a calm conversation over a glass of spotchka. But he can hear the strain in her voice as she quickly rummages through the metal box. She stops and turns her head to him, wiping the snow off his visor in what feels like a worried gesture. “Din?”

He just faintly grunts back, struggling to keep his jaw still, but his teeth are clattering. She lets out a relieved breath, then sinks a stim in his abdomen, near the wound. He flinches at the prickling, warm wave spreading out from the injection.

“It’s just procoagulant, I couldn't find any painkillers,” she explains, proceeding to move his hand from the wound he can now barely feel, but that’s about to become devastatingly painful in a matter of seconds. He knows what’s coming. “And _this_ is going to be nasty,” she says with a click of her tongue, firmly gripping the shard as she gently works on the right angle to pull it out without worsening the damage. Just that tiny maneuver almost send him over the brink of unconsciousness, and he inhales audibly.

" _Dank farrik_."

“Yeah, I know. Sorry.” And then she pulls, with no further notice.

White sizzles in his vision. His head jerks back against the floor, and he can’t help but let out a muffled scream as the sharp metal slides out the cut, as he clearly feels its jagged edges tear through the muscle and skin – and then it’s out, and the fresh, relieving pressure of a bacta pack spreads over and inside the wound as Cara applies it.

His chest is heaving, but he feels the healing fluid already starting to work wonders and repair the damaged tissues. He knows he can’t feel _that_ much better yet, but he does all the same. He sighs in sheer relief as he fumbles for where he thinks Cara is – since his eyelids are still slammed shut.

Her hand meets him halfway and grips him tight. “You okay?”

“I’ll live,” he murmurs, or rather slurs. “Let’s just make sure... this is the _last_ time someone blows me up.”

She just sighs, tightening her grip, and he knows exactly what she’s thinking. It can’t have been easy for her, seeing him all bloodied up and concussed again after an explosion.

He turns his head to look at her and cracks an eye open. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright, and there’s snow in her disheveled and damp hair. She’s clearly run like a fathier to get back as fast as she could, and that thought tugs at his chest in a bittersweet way. He would’ve done the same – he has.

“I shouldn’t have called you,” she says then, harshly. He blinks, and he knows she’s blaming herself for putting him in harm’s way – as if she could do it willingly. He firmly shakes his head, but she goes on: ”It always ends up like this.”

“Like what? With you ripping my clothes off?” He grins under the helmet, through a sudden wave of residual pain.

She rolls her eyes, even though her lips quirk upwards. “You wish,” she cheekily retorts, and she lightly knocks a couple of times on his helmet’s temple. “I meant with _me_ saving _your_ ass, anyway,” she says, more cheerfully.

"I thought _I_ saved _your_ ass since I'm the one wearing the beskar." Din is still grinning, and he knows she can hear him by the way her face lights up. “You’re glad I’m here.”

“Here? In a pool of your own blood? No, I can’t say I’m _glad_ ,” she says matter-of-factly as she carefully helps him sit up when he makes clear he wants to. He grunts and winces at the shooting pain in his side, stiffly regaining some balance, and his torn jumpsuit all but falls apart, leaving him half-naked in the cold. She puts her hands on his shoulders, squeezing them and rubbing the exposed skin to warm him a bit. “I owe you.”

“Yeah. You owe me a celebration,” he says, clumsily sliding his numb palm behind her nape to press their foreheads together.

She smiles and does the same, cradling his neck. “We can work on that.”

Then they take a moment to breathe together. Doing it comes naturally, by now, and they just cherish the fact that they’re both alive, once again. There’s no one in sight, but everything else can wait until they’re back on the _Crest_ and shielded from the world. Cara just affectionately runs her fingers under the helmet’s hem, along his jawline, before pulling away with a slight scowl.

“You’re freezing,” she states then, concern now painted all over her face. He shudders as if on cue and doesn’t argue the obvious.

He can’t wait to get out of that poor excuse for an armor, get back on the _Crest,_ and huddle up in his bunk for three days straight – possibly and probably with Cara. Even though they’ll pretend it’s just to share body warmth. It’s still fun to play around with blatantly obvious facts, big words, and unspoken truths they really don’t have to speak out loud. Not when they can tell all they want and need through other means – like constantly having each other’s back.

That thought gives him the strength he needs to get up on his feet. Or better, try, fail, and let Cara hoist him almost bodily, since his legs have become stiffer than a broken AT’s. He tries to find some sort of balance and manages to maintain an upright stance, even though his wounded side pounds with subdued pain. Maybe they’ll really end up only sharing body warmth as he collapses straight into dreamland – to the kid’s delight, since he loves snuggling up between them when they’re asleep. Either way, getting out of the cold is his top priority right now. He wraps his arms around his middle, trying to warm up.

He's about to suggest searching for a blanket inside the blown-up lodge, mildly unnerved by what remains they might find inside, when Cara suddenly stifles a hiccup, in what sounds like the cut-off start of a laugh. He questioningly tilts his head towards her, and she looks back at him guiltily, covering her lips with the back of her hand.

“You look… _ridiculous_ ,” she snorts, jutting her chin at his peculiar attire.

He almost sputters in outrage, then looks down at himself: his upper jumpsuit is cut open squarely on the front, and dangles unceremoniously from his waist down to his knees, where the cuirass clanks against his leg plates. His torso is completely exposed, if not for the sleeves kept together by the vambraces and pauldrons, and the green frame of the bacta pack is plastered to his side. On top of that, stands out his not-so-inconspicuous helmet. He looks like a half-dismantled droid.

Yeah, he’s a sorry sight, he can give her that.

“I’ll bring a spare shirt next time I almost get shredded by a seismic charge,” he huffs trying to fasten the front of his armor and undergarment back together. It slips from his half-frozen fingers and falls back with a loud clinging.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” she reproaches him, with an amused twitch of her lips as he tries again, this time holding the front of his armor tight with his arm across his chest. “You’re still in one piece and we’re _still_ celebrating tonight.”

He tilts his head, not sure if he should read _exactly_ what he’s reading through her words, or if it’s just his frozen brain acting up. “We can celebrate all you want after I put myself back together,” he just says, still clinging to his clothes and dignity.

“ _After?_ ” she taunts him, with an unmistakably mischievous smirk, as she slides his arm around her shoulders to help him walk in a not-too-subtle way.

He snorts and he teasingly squeezes her shoulder, in what is the closest thing to an embrace, at least in this situation. “I thought I looked _ridiculous_ ,” he shoots back, trying to sound offended, but she just laughs him off.

“You are just not undressed enough yet,” she states, starting off down the porch and guiding him into the high snow.

He rolls his eyes, but just gently presses his head against her temple. A veil of warmth flushes his cheeks under the helmet, simply content with knowing they’re both aching to feel each other after that cold, long day. Then he nudges her lightly with his head, holding back a chuckle.

“Drinks are on _you_ tonight.”

She shrugs and just holds him tighter. “Fair enough.”

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, the tenses. They are not what you're looking for *you've just been Kenobi'd* (seriously though, I know they're a mess so feel free to point them out!)
> 
> Btw I wasn't planning on writing them as an established couple, but then they started doing what they wanted and I let them – blame them, not me!


End file.
